


Proxy War

by emmaliza



Category: Take That (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Complicated Relationships, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Depression, M/M, Morning After, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, Rimming, Role Reversal, Roleplay, Sad Ending, Shower Sex, The Wilderness Years, safe sex, the bromance orgy at its most dysfunctional
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-08 20:11:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15251148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: This isn't much like them. They're the nice ones, who had nothing to do with all the drama and who no-one's ever had a bad word to say about.But they are both unshakably loyal.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ok so I'm not 100% this is going to be three chapters exactly, but like, it shouldn't be too long (famous last words...). Also, I promise the secondary pairing tags will make more sense in chapters to come. Bear with me.

There's a bit of having something resembling a career again (at least for a little while) that surprises, and it's travelling. He's in Germany, in a nightclub for some reason or other, sipping a glass of wine and making eye contact with a cute blonde across the bar. She giggles, and Mark breaks his gaze away, admonishing himself, although that never seems to stop him.

Before he can do anything too stupid though, he looks up, searching the room, and ends up looking toward the DJ, whose music fills the walls until they might shatter. Mark frowns. He sees a tall figure, dark-haired, chin covered in scruff, and he seems so familiar but Mark can't place it, not at first.

It's not until one of his sets ends and the DJ decides it's time for a break, lets a record play without interruption while grabbing a bottle of water, and then he's coming down, down into the throng of anonymous bodies, and it would be so easy to lose track of him but by sheer chance he passes right by Mark, and Mark's heart skips a beat when the figure finally comes into focus. Of course. Of _course_.

“Howard!”

Stop, turn, and then Howard goes all wide-eyed, caught off-guard to be referred to by name. “Marko?” And Mark wears his most seventeen-ish grin, getting up off his stool to hug, to say hello.

When Howard's arms wrap around him in turn, he squeezes so tight he almost lifts Mark up off the ground. “Hiya mate, how you doing?” Mark murmurs against his neck, stubble grazing his chin. “Thought it was you up there, but I wasn't sure.” That's not a lie exactly, but it is an exaggeration.

“Couldn't see shit from so high up,” Howard says, and Mark laughs, relieved a little. Finally, they break the hug, and Howard takes a moment to stare at him, to realise that yes, that really is Mark Owen, standing right there. “Well 'ello then. What are you doing here?”

“Hmm? Oh, uh, stuff.” _Specific,_ he thinks, and Howard snorts at him. “New record label. Want me all over the place.” He wonders if he shouldn't have said that, if that makes it seem to much like he's trying to win a competition he doesn't want to have, but then again he's pretty sure Howard's DJ-ing has proven a more solid and respectable career than any of his abortive attempts at solo stardom. “See you're hard at work too, huh?”

“'S a living,” Howard tells him, and Mark nods along. Howard gets a slightly guilty look. “Should probably be getting back to it, actually.”

“Aww.” Mark couldn't tell you why his blood suddenly runs cold at the thought. He hasn't seen Howard in years, he hasn't seen any of them in years (Gaz's wedding, he thinks, was the last time eighty per cent of Take That were all together). When they broke up, he didn't think much about if he'd miss the other boys (he was so busy missing Rob, the thought of missing anyone else on top of that was incomprehensible). But now Howard is actually here, and Mark can't bear to let him go so quickly, to bump into each other like old acquaintances and then forget – even if he's not sure they are anything more. “C'mon, listen to that record. It's having a nice time playing on its own – doesn't want you interrupting.” Howard laughs at that, and Mark gives his sweetest look. It turns out, all those years of being 'the cute one' are good for something. He's a dab hand at puppy-eyeing people into doing what he wants. “At least let me buy you a drink. I swear I still have money!”

Howard keeps laughing, and then gives him a soft look. It was never an argument, really. “Yeah, alright,” he says. “But if I get myself sacked then you'll have to put up with me bumming around on your couch after.”

“Eh, I could use the company.”

* * *

It's funny; Howard's done his best not to think too much about the band for the last – what is it, six years now? (After the year he spent thinking about basically nothing else.) But now he's here with Mark, trying to catch up when they can barely hear each other over the thumping music, it all comes flooding back. It's enough to trick Howard that it's 1991 again, and they're still working for their break in dingy clubs, that Jay, Gaz and Rob are around here somewhere, chatting up girls or gathering feedback or scoring Es or simply gone for a piss – that Rob isn't so famous he's forgotten them all, apart from when he remembers to hate them, that Gaz isn't still half in exile, hiding from the world, and that Jay hasn't buggered off to god only knows where. Howard feels almost like he's gone back in time.

Something like dread starts clawing in his throat.

Best he just focus on Mark then, whose eyes shine bright with curiosity as he sips his beer. “So, do you live in Germany now?”

“Nah,” Howard tells him, and then reconsiders. “I mean, I do have a flat here, but I don't really _live_ here.” Technically speaking he's not sure he lives anywhere. “I'm a bit all over the place myself. But my daughter lives here half the time, so I do spend a lot of time in the country.” Mark nods along, and Howard wonders whether he should be embarrassed, what with his kid from a failed relationship on the other side of the English channel. Then again, he's not heard anything about Mark's personal life recently, so maybe it's as much of a mess as Howard's is. “What about you, Markie? What have you been up to?”

Mark shrugs. “Not much, past three years. Though you might have seen me on the telly.” Howard laughs. Yeah, he did see a bit of that – he doesn't usually watch Big Brother, but he figured if Mark was in the house, he owed it to at least check in.

It was strange though, seeing one of them onscreen, so familiar but so far away (admittedly, he sees Rob on the telly all the time, but he has to be used to that by now). He knows that people on those shows aren't always the people they are in real life, but it seemed like Mark. It seemed like the Mark he knew. And he never did fully understand how all those people who didn't know them could drive themselves so mental over them, but watching Mark from afar, it was easy to understand why half the world fell in love with him.

Yep, that's definitely dread.

“You got yourself a girl, Markie?” he asks, still a little caught up on the subject of his personal life and maybe he shouldn't drag Mark into that, but oh well.

Mark hesitates a moment before answering. “Nah,” he says, and takes another sip. “I mean, nothing serious.” Howard frowns as Mark avoids his eye a moment, but he decides not to pry.

“Right.” And he knows there must be more to catch up on, but somehow silence falls over it all. Sitting here with Mark makes it hard to talk about the years since they've seen each other, because it feels like those years never happened it all. Like they were all a dream. Once in Take That, always in Take That.

He wonders what Robbie Williams would say to that.

Howard gives Mark a sidelong glance – his hair is longer, but apart from that he doesn't look any different. He barely looks old enough to be in this bloody club. Part of Howard thinks he ought to cut his losses and run, before he gets in over his head, but another part badly wants Mark to stay. That's the part of him that means he should be running.

He checks his watch and doesn't bother to register the time. “I should get back to the table,” he says. The dancing crowds are still having a good time, but they might have noticed their DJ's disappearance by now.

Mark gives him a look, and Howard struggles with himself. Really though, there was only ever one way this was gonna end.

“Tell you what mate, why don't you come back to my place when I'm finished?” Mark raises his eyebrows, and Howard's almost embarrassed. But he laughs it off. “Not like that. Unless you wanna. You're still a pretty thing after all.” He flicks Mark's ear, and Mark laughs in return. “But we can catch up properly there, and I can hear myself think.” Mostly, he knows he's gonna hear himself thinking this is a bad idea. “You in?”

Mark grins and nods at him, feet swinging a half-inch off the ground. “That sounds great How,” he says, and he gets up to hug Howard again, pressing a casual kiss to his cheek. “Alright then, off to work with ya. One of us has to have a career after all,” he jokes.

Howard knows he shouldn't say it, but he blurts out: “What about Robbie?”

Mark stops. He pulls back, and Howard sees the familiar look written upon his face: pain, poorly hidden. It's like it is the nineties again. “Apart from Rob, of course,” he mumbles, and Howard winces with guilt. He bites back the question of whether Rob is really one of them anymore anyway.

* * *

So Mark ends up waiting the night for Howard to finish, and he talks to that blonde after all, but he knows he can't go home with her with a friend waiting for him, and it's almost a relief to be saved from his own worse impulses. He's still a bit pissed by the time the last stragglers head home near five in the morning, Howard's done for the night and comes to fetch him off the bar. He laughs. “How much have you had, Marko?”

“Ehhh,” Mark answers nonsensically, easily sliding his arm around Howard's shoulders to help himself up. “I'm small. You can carry me.”

Howard snorts. “Mate. I've not exactly kept up the old work out regime for the last seven years.” But leaning against his body, Mark thinks he's still in as good shape as ever, and he doesn't actually seem to have any trouble keeping a slumping Mark upright. It's easy, thinks Mark. He can pretend that Howard's actually just dragging him to his hotel room, which is right upstairs, and the rest of the boys will be ready and willing to laugh at him when he's hungover tomorrow.

They don't actually talk much on the way to How's flat, but the wintry air sobers Mark up a bit. Enough that once they're actually there he lets Howard pour him another glass of wine without question, and they sit across from another in a small cramped kitchenette, staring a moment, taking one another in.

“So,” Howard says, pulling an uncomfortable face. “What now?”

“We talk,” Mark answers, but somehow that seems so much harder now than it did in the club, despite the lack of loud music they have to shout over. Being sat in Howard flat makes them look like adults after all, and they don't really know how to be adults together. It reminds them that maybe they don't have anything to talk about after all.

“'Bout anything in particular, or...?” Howard trails off, and Mark smiles at him, but it still takes a second to think up a question to ask.

“Have you heard from any of the others lately?”

Really, of all the things to ask.

A pause, and then Howard answers. “Yeah,” he says. “Gaz and I keep in touch.”

Mark swallows deeply. Right. Gaz. He and Howard were always best friends; of course they're still in touch.

“So how is he...?” And Mark has the awful thought that maybe he doesn't want to know. He does read the papers after all.

“Alright,” says Howard. Well that could mean anything. “He's doing a lot better these days.” Implicit in that sentence though is the fact Gaz was once doing very badly, and Mark finds he's too much of a coward to pry. He and Gary were never that close, not as close as him and Rob, but Mark was always fond.

He says nothing and lets Howard carry on the conversation alone – which is strange, for Howard. “What about you?” he asks. “Do you still see Robbie?”

Mark winces. “Not really,” he admits. He gets the occasionally drunken phone call out of the blue, but whenever he calls back, there's no reply. “But you know, Rob's Rob. He's unpredictable. You never know when he might come knocking.”

He looks up, not realising he averted his eyes, and sees Howard purse his lips together slightly. He feels like he just lost a fight he didn't know he was having.

* * *

Howard should have seen this coming. When he and Mark first saw each other in that club, they got drunk on that first rush of memory, but now they're back home and they're sobering up. The more he drinks, the more sober he feels.

Maybe this is what he was afraid of.

There's no reason for it to be so awkward. He and Mark always got on together. They always got on with everyone. What's keeping them from just being mates again?

Mark is starting to look like he's crawling out of his skin too. “Hey, How, listen – I don't mean to be awful,” he says, and Howard gets anxious for a moment before remembering that Mark says that all the bloody time. “But do you mind if I light up a fag? I'm starting to itch for one, if I'm honest.”

He has to laugh. Was that all? “I don't mind, mate, but my landlord might,” he says. “Doesn't like smoke in the furnishings and all that.” He sees Mark frown, as if he's surprised Howard rents this place instead of buying it. Howard knows he's still got plenty coming in by way of royalty payments, but it doesn't hurt to be careful with his money where he can. He's got a daughter to support, after all. That, and Gaz might be a bad influence on him. “I've got a balcony out back though; I usually go for a cheeky fag there.”

“Oh.” Mark blinks in surprise, staring over Howard's shoulder to the balcony right in his eyeline. He clearly didn't notice it at all. “Right then.” He gets up, pulling the packet from his trousers. “I'll see you in a bit?” he grins nervously.

Howard nods and lets him go, listening to the door slide open and shut. He sighs. No, hang on, he's a better bloody host than that. He gets up off his lazy arse and goes to join Mark outside.

_Shit, it's cold,_ he remembers as he steps out, but it's too late to change his mind. He closes the door behind him and sees Mark turn round, a puff of smoke escaping his lips, and smile softly at him. “Hi there.”

“Hey,” Howard says, shuffling forward and taking his spot next to Mark, leaning against the railing. He stares out into the sea of city lights in front, bright enough to make him dizzy. He shivers. “Fuck. It's bloody freezing out here, innit?”

Mark laughs. “Sure is,” he says, and takes another drag on his cigarette as if trying to suck the fire in. “I don't remember it being this cold in Germany.”

“'S a big place,” Howard shrugs. “I've gotten used to it by now.”

“To freezing your bollocks off?”

“Eh. They only ever get me in trouble anyway.”

Mark laughs, and Howard grins at him. Somehow, everything seems better now. Like getting out of the tiny cramped flat has released them, let them free as the night air, made them what they once were again. _Fuck, I sound like Jay._ He looks at Mark, and sees him shivering too, curling his tiny body in on itself. “You right, mate?” he asks. He'd offer Mark his jacket, but he's not wearing one. He could go get one – or two – from inside, but then again, all his jackets would be too big on Mark. But Mark's worn stupider things than an oversized jacket.

“I'm freezing my bollocks off too,” Mark says, lips pink and chattering around his fag.

“We should cuddle for warmth like in the old days, then,” says Howard.

Mark gives him a look, somewhere between amused and sad. Howard averts his eyes shyly. He was kidding, really. Too many years have passed for all that. 'Sides, he and Mark were never _that_ close, not directly, and so the cuddling was always when there was someone else there. Just the two of them, it'd be weird.

“Alright.”

He looks up and sees Mark stamp out his cigarette against the rail, and if he's finished there's no bloody reason to stay outside at all, but Howard says nothing as Mark leans over and curls up against his chest, head tucked neatly beneath his chin. _Fuck, he is freezing,_ thinks Howard as Mark's cold cheek presses against his collarbone, and he immediately, instinctively wraps his arms around the other man, holding on for dear life.

“Mmm,” Mark murmurs contentedly in his arms, nuzzling into him a little. “You're a good cuddler, How.”

“Well, you're an easy cuddle. Nice and small.” Mark slaps his chest playfully, and Howard grins. “It is nice this though, innit?”

“It is,” Mark sighs, breath turning to fog in the air. “I felt bloody awful when we were in the kitchen for some reason. Dunno why.”

“Yeah, me too,” Howard mutters, and he folds his arms around Mark tighter, city lights burning into his eyes. Just like stadium lights used to. It makes him think of all that time ago, being up on stage with the band. Of how he felt when he had to perform 'Never Forget' in front of an audience the first time, and on top the panic and sense of _oh shit how do I get out of this?_ , there was a bit of a thrill at being in the limelight after all.

“Been on this path of life for so long...” he starts singing without thinking about it.

Mark leans back against him, warm against his chest. “Doo doo doo,” he adds, smile in his voice.

Howard's smiling too. “We've had success, we've had good times.” They did, didn't they? They had a lot of good times in that band. He remembers them, even if nobody else does.

“But remember this.” Mark joins in on the harmony.

Howard is almost ready to break into the verse proper, he could, he knows the words off by heart – but he stops himself. He feels stupid. “Sorry mate,” he says, and steps back from Mark's body, the cold hitting him like a truck. “We gonna do the whole song here? 'Fraid I've not been at karaoke in while, I'm a bit rusty.”

Mark spins 'round, giving him a bemused look. “We might as well,” he says. “Though we'll be quiet; don't want to wake the neighbours.” Howard has to smile at that. Sweet little Mark. “Still, why not? For old time's sakes? You're a good singer, How,” he adds. Then he scrunches his nose. “Better than me, if I'm honest.”

“You sure about that, mate?” Howard snorts. Admittedly neither of them are exactly superstars, but– “At least your album actually got released.”

Mark winces. “And got me dropped right after,” he points out. Howard frowns. Ah, right. He forgot that, and now he feels a knob. “And now I got another deal, but god knows if that's gonna work out.”

“You're doing it again anyway,” Howard says. “That's brave of ya.” _Some people wouldn't,_ he thinks, and then it's his turn to wince. Suddenly he feels like he did back in the kitchen.

“I guess,” Mark mutters. He sighs theatrically. “I don't know, it's more like I don't know how to stop myself, if I'm honest with ya.” Howard frowns, not sure he understands, but nods along. “I suppose that's the way, isn't it? You get in the habit. You'll keep doing this the rest of your life, even if it makes you miserable, 'cause you just don't know how to do anything else...” He averts his eyes, like he's thinking about someone else too.

“We did have some good times though.” There's a lump in Howard's throat. See, he knew this was a bad idea. “Didn't we, Marko?”

Mark looks back up, and smiles at him. His smile's the same as ever. “Yeah, we did.” Then he takes a step forward, catching Howard off-guard. They're still standing pretty close, so Mark doesn't have to move much before they're nose-to-nose, looking pretty bloody compromising. A part of Howard instinctively wonders what the press will make of this, before he remembers they're not famous anymore, and none of the snapping paparazzi would give a shit.

But that doesn't solve the problem of Mark being about an inch removed from his face, his blue eyes all big and needy. _No wonder all the girls fancied him._ “Um,” says Howard, but when Mark's lips meet his own, he gives in. The kiss is soft, tender, and makes more sense than it ought.

* * *

Mark really wasn't planning on having a one night stand tonight. But once their lips lock together, it all just falls into place, like the old dance moves he sometimes finds himself breaking into when he catches one of their songs on the radio. He clings to Howard's chest and gropes his muscles, that body somehow just as perfect as it was seven years ago, and they go tumbling inside, the glass door slamming behind them as Howard knots his fingers through Mark's hair. He giggles as Howard pulls him toward the bedroom, and it's fun, this is; Mark refuses to think of it as anything but fun.

“Oof!” he says when he lands on his back on Howard's bed, and Howard chuckles while starting to pull his shirt up and over his head.

“Sorry mate,” he says, and Mark ignores his words in favour of helping discard his clothes, grinning when he sees that silver piercing poke out from behind the fabric.

He leans up and flicks it with his thumb. “Missed you,” he says, mostly to the piercing but to Howard too, and Howard snorts before Mark takes the nipple in his mouth and sucks, making him gasp.

“Bastard,” Howard groans and Mark chuckles against the skin, before he's pushed flat on his back again as Howard slots between his legs, leaning down again to kiss him. It's all so easy, even though it shouldn't be – when it's been so many years since they saw each other, and even when they did see each other every day, none of _this_ ever happened between any of them, no matter what the press said. Well, except for a couple of drunken kisses – that Mark should absolutely not be thinking about right now.

The sex is hurried, clumsy, just the two of them rocking their crotches together and Mark sticking his hand inside Howard's boxers, squeezing roughly. Howard's boxers never even come off. He does moan though, fingers holding on to Mark's hips, pressing tight enough to bruise. Mark winces a little, but he's in no state to complain. “When'd you get so fucking small?” Howard murmurs in his ear.

Mark frowns. “I was always this bloody small.” Really, after all the jokes over the years. Howard pauses a moment, and Mark groans at the sudden cease of stimulation, thrusting his hips up lewdly to urge Howard on. If the other boy – man; Howard must be what, thirty five by now? – is thinking about someone else, Mark doesn't want to know.

“Right,” says Howard, and resumes moving, making Mark gasp and pant as his cock traces against Mark's own, making pleasure spark up his spine. He blushes a little at the position he's in, on his back with his legs spread, but he reasons that nobody needs to know. It's not like he's humping the floor in front of thousands again. “Jesus,” whispers Howard, hands clutching the pillow either side of Mark's head.

The thing is, Mark can imagine this having happened, back in the day – back when they were all sharing rooms, and always closer together the fewer clothes they wore. He can imagine it happening between any of them. He imagines a lot of things could have been worked out this way.

When he leans up and threads his hands through that dark hair, he's surprised by how long it is. Though he _should_ be surprised that Howard doesn't have the dreads anymore.

“Fuck,” Howard gasps as Mark pulls him down, burying his head in Mark's neck as his movements start to falter. “Fuck, I'm going... I'm going...” he clutches Mark's hip harder as his teeth graze Mark's skin, thrusting so hard against his body you'd think he was trying to drive right through him.

Mark moans and throws his head back, bearing his neck for Howard to kiss, suck, bite, to leave a bruise, and _shit I shouldn't_ but it's too late now. “Oh god,” he almost whimpers as his orgasm comes crashing down upon him, but he wants it, he wants it for both of them; he wants to them to have this one good, fun, pure moment of pleasure together, and not have to worry about anything, anyone else in the world.

“Come for me, please, come for me,” he whispers and Howard _cries out_ in his ear, loud enough to make Mark wince. He shudders when he feels Howard release, hot and sticky and sinking through his boxers, and it's enough to push Mark over the edge too, spending with a deep, low groan, making a mess of them both. _It looks like we're filming Do What U Like again,_ he thinks, and smiles to himself.

Howard all but collapses the moment his orgasm is finished, and Mark, while feeling guilty for it, has to gently push him away to make sure he doesn't get squished. When Howard rolls on his side and frowns at him, however, Mark quickly grins and leans over to rest his head on Howard's chest instead, just to reassure him that Mark doesn't have a problem with cuddling.

Howard sighs and pulls Mark tighter, leaning down to kiss his hair gently. Maybe it would be a good idea to talk now, but they don't. They just hold each other, and slowly drift off to sleep.

It's not as easy as it ought to be. Mark feels exhausted by it all – sex, booze and memory – but he soon starts getting cold, and while he clings to Howard to warm up, it can't quite stop the winter seeping in entirely. The thing is, in this dark, cramped flat, he doesn't quite feel like they're alone.

 


	2. Chapter 2

So. The morning after. Howard's had a few of those in his time, usually pretty awkward, with one night stands or exes he called in a drunken fit of self-pity. Just none with former bandmates. But then again, they should be pretty similar to the latter.

He wakes in the morning – or, alright, about half past noon, but to be fair they didn't get back 'til near sunrise – and finds the bed is empty. It should be a relief, the thought that Mark has realised last night was a terrible mistake and decided to cut his losses, so they can go back to barely acknowledging each other exists like most members of Take That have done for the past seven years. But Howard just feels crushed; he grabs a pillow and squeezes it, cursing himself for getting into this situation.

Then he hears a light sound of fizzling from the kitchen, and comes to his senses a bit. Right, Mark wouldn't just _leave_. That's not like him. Even back in the day with groupies and such, he was always a gentleman.

Relieved, Howard forces himself up out of bed, rubbing his still slightly sore eyes. His clothes are still lying in a pile on the floor, and he pulls them back on, presuming Mark won't mind too much if he's a bit grimy from last night. After all, Mark's seen him in stupider things than last night's clothes.

He walks into the kitchen, a little dizzy, and as he leans somewhere near the lightswitch he watches Mark at the stove, humming to himself. “Morning,” he grunts sleepily.

Mark spins around and grins at him. If he feels awkward about last night, it doesn't show. “Morning! I was just about to bring you eggs. They're almost done.” He switches the gas off. “On a related note: you're out of eggs, sorry, you'll have to go buy more.” Howard laughs at that. “I also made you a cup of tea, but it might be cold by now.”

Howard spots the cup on the kitchen counter, walks over, takes a sip. He winces. It is a bit cold, but it feels like he has to drink it if Mark went to the trouble. A stab of pain goes rushing through his head. “Fuck,” he says. “You know, I feel much more hungover now than I did drunk last night.”

“That means you're old, How,” Mark laughs, and Howard gives a mock-indignant huff. Mark starts scooping the eggs out of the flying pan and onto two plates. Howard wonders if he should wrap his arms around Mark's waist, hook his head over his shoulder, get in the way. Usually he wouldn't think twice about doing that with his shags, or with his old bandmates, but somehow Mark being both those things makes both impulses cancel each other out, like it's bloody maths or something.

Mark turns round to hand him his plate and, now they're stuck facing each other, the awkwardness hits again. “So uh,” says Howard. “Do we have to talk now?”

“I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you, mate,” says Mark, scrunching his face.

Howard laughs. “Well, you know me Markie. Any excuse not to have to talk.” And Mark smiles at him. Really, what good would talking do? Does he think that's going to make shagging your former bandmate, who you've barely seen for seven years and oh yeah, happens to be a bloke, any less weird? “So um, do you have a gig or anything to be at today?”

Mark shakes his head. “Nah. Got the weekend off. Though I got to get the train to Amsterdam Monday.”

_You don't have to leave then?_ thinks Howard, and then tries to think up a way of phrasing that sentence that's slightly less pathetic. “Well, uh, don't feel like you have to be in a rush or anything,” he says, tucking into his eggs entirely because the plate is getting hot enough to sting his fingers, and not to avoid Mark's eye. “This place ain't much, but whatever's here, you're welcome to. Mi casa es su casa 'n all.”

He hopes his Spanish was right there. His German is better, really. “Thanks Howard,” Mark says quietly, and then they both eat their eggs in silence for a bit. At some point, they should maybe sit down for breakfast (or lunch, it might be) like normal people. “I should take a shower,” Mark says, scrunching his nose again. “I'm all sticky.”

“Sorry 'bout that mate,” Howard says, grinning, and Mark grins back at him.

“Oh, I think I gave as good as I got.”

They eat in silence a little bit longer, and when Howard's finished his eggs – pretty quickly, he was hungry – he returns to the tea, now even colder. Each sip makes him flinch, but he keeps at it stubbornly. Though he does say: “You know, I don't usually take sugar in my tea.”

Mark looks so wounded that Howard feels like a cunt for even bringing it up. “Don't you?” he asks softly, and Howard, not sure what to say, takes a large gulp as if to prove it's not a problem. Though all he manages is to almost choke himself, _fuck_. Mark sighs. “Sorry How. I – I think I mixed you up with Rob, there.”

Howard stops. They've hit a stumbling block. The same one they keep hitting. “You remember his tea order?” he can't help asking.

Mark shrugs, grins nervously. “You never know when it might come in handy, right?” And some people might call Mark pathetic, clinging on to the memory of his ultra-famous former best friend like he might come crawling back someday. Then again, Howard's hardly one to judge.

He keeps sipping in silence while Mark finishes his eggs, before disappearing to the bathroom without another word. As soon as he's gone, Howard pours what remains of the ice cold tea in the sink. He sighs and looks up at the ceiling. Fuck, it really is like he drunk-dialled an ex, with all the being painfully torn between wanting to beg them to stay and wanting to shout at them for showing up in the first place, for playing with his feelings like that. He groans and runs his fingers through his hair. There's no getting out now.

* * *

Shower. This would typically be an ideal time to collect his thoughts, to figure out where he is and what he's done and what to do now, where can stake out a tiny bit of solitude. But Mark keeps thinking himself in circles, worrying his hair with his fingers and chewing his bottom lip, water scalding against his back.

It would be nice to pretend this was just one more one night stand, with a friendly old acquaintance, but no-one he's going to have to face days from now, someone he can never see again if he so chooses; it does not have to mean anything. But he can't pretend Howard's just anyone. He was in Take That. That means something, even if Mark still doesn't know what.

Part of him wants to make his escape anyway, to come up with a kind, sweet, gentle lie of the sort he always does to run out on his bed partners while still being the nice Mark Owen they think they know, and part of him wants to stay, to sink into Howard's company and his memory, into the spectre of that band that left him so worn out, almost as worn out as it did Rob. It was seductive, Take That. And not just because they got their kit off so much.

Mark is still weighing up his options when he hears the door swing open, he turns around in curiosity. It's Howard, because of course it is, who else would it be? (He flinches a little when he thinks over that question. Who does Howard have in his life now?) For a moment, Mark thinks Howard might have just come to offer him a spare towel or something like that, but no. Mark watches as Howard strips his clothes off in barely ten seconds. _He always was practical,_ Mark remembers.

It's Mark who opens the shower door, who invites Howard in. Howard looks a little surprised at that, and maybe even a little nervous, but he obeys the summons. They stand but an inch apart, naked and bathed in steam, and Mark finds himself panting shallowly as he looks up into Howard's wide blue eyes. _This is bad,_ he thinks, but then Howard leans down and pushes their mouths together, more gently than Mark was expecting. And Mark just clings. He winds his arm around Howard's neck and moans whorishly into his mouth, tongue wet and dirty when it meets Howard's own, and he lets himself be swallowed by the water and by Howard's body.

Howard has him pressed up against the shower wall, cold tiles soothing his reddened skin, and Mark lets his spare hand trail over Howard's chest, down to the thatch of hair leading to his groin. Howard pants into his mouth as Mark circles the very base of his cock with soft fingers, and Mark smiles to himself before moving them back up again. He doesn't want to be mean, but maybe he can tease a little. He wants this to last.

That body, big, tall and _strong_ pushes harder up against him, and Mark feels a cock throbbing against his thigh. He breaks the kiss to moan, his head smacking against the wall. He hisses in pain, and Howard chuckles a little, before moving his kisses to Mark's neck and soothing him that way. Mark gasps, one leg curling up around Howard's waist, one hand lightly gripping Howard's shoulder, in case he needs to push the other man away before he leaves a bruise.

His neck was starting to strain from leaning up into the kiss, but now Howard's bent down a little, it's easier. Mark looks at him from between half-closed lids, sees his messy curls plastered down by the water and getting into his eyes. He doesn't quite look like himself. Mark groans as Howard's teeth graze his collarbone, and then Howard moves further down, taking Mark's nipple between his lips and sucking softly.

“Ah!” Mark cries out, hair plastered against white tile, gripping Howard's hair – it looks darker, straighter in the water – with both hands, holding on for dear life. He trembles and presses his cock against Howard's thigh needily. Howard keeps sucking away a few seconds, before he pulls back, strong fingers tracing down Mark's belly before he leans down further and leaves a trail of soft kisses there instead. Mark is so preoccupied with his gasping and shivering that he hardly notices Howard sliding onto his knees in front of him until it's already happened.

Mark's eyes go wide. “H-How,” he says, bracing his hands against the wall. _You don't have to,_ he wants to say, because he feels like he should, but Howard just looks up at him, his pupils blown, and grabs his thigh firmly before kissing the skin there. Mark moans, and lets it happen.

When Howard wraps his lips around the head it's a little awkward; he has to give it a couple of goes, as if he's still figuring how to fit it all in. Mark bites his lip; he knows he shouldn't feel smug about that. But Howard manages. His sucks are gentle, hesitant, and it makes Mark wonder if Howard's ever actually done this before. Mark feels teeth barely graze his tip and he cries out, his hands gripping Howard's hair once more and pulling, hard. He wants to push Howard down further, he really does, and he barely restrains himself in time. Fuck.

Howard moans softly around Mark's cock, and his hand grabs Mark's thigh once more. Mark blinks in confusion as Howard guides his leg up and over his own shoulder, leaving them at a slightly awkward angle, Mark's thigh presses against Howard's cheek as he shyly starts to bob his head. _Um, alright,_ thinks Mark and then as Howard takes him in an inch deeper, he moans, and curls his leg around Howard's neck to pull him closer. It's maybe not the best blowjob he's ever gotten, but it's not bad either.

Just then, Howard pulls off, looking up again. Mark coughs awkwardly, blushing a little at the position they're in. “Are you alright?” he asks, because it seems like the thing to say, but then again he's not sure what he'd do if Howard said no.

Howard nods, shivering a little at Mark's feet. The water pours down the drain wastefully. Then, Howard takes ahold of his other thigh, lifting Mark up until all his weight is resting on Howard's shoulders. Mark hesitates, looking down at Howard with worry. This seems like a bad idea. He knows he's not very heavy, but still, it seems dangerous to have all the weight of another man that close to your neck. _This is the sort of thing that made me break his finger that time,_ Mark thinks, but Howard seems unaware of or unconcerned with any risks, and Mark in the end just reaches him and grabs the showerhead with both hands, lightening the load as best he can.

Mark gasps as Howard moves back in and applies his tongue to Mark's skin – not his cock, but behind it, while his hands grip the cheeks of Mark's arse firmly and spread them apart. _Oh God,_ thinks Mark. He forgot about Howard's tongue, his ridiculously oversized tongue, and it feels incredible. It's been a long time since someone did this for Mark, and it's only after he's had that thought that Mark realises what it is Howard's doing. He whines as Howard's tongue finds the rim of his hole, pressing in a little, and he throws his head back, spreading his legs as wide as he can without falling off.

A soft moan rings out from between his legs, breathy, higher than you'd expect – Mark remembers he was surprised when he realised Howard actually has a pretty good vocal range. Not that Mark can hear him well right now, his noises muffled into Mark's arse and under the noise of the shower. Mark shivers as he realises the water is starting to run cold, but Howard's tongue leaves him too hot anyway. He thrusts back as Howard's tongue goes inside him, _deep_ , and if Mark had known what Howard was going to do he'd have cleaned up a bit, but he's pretty sure Howard isn't going to stop now. Mark wants to reach down and grab his hair, pull him in further, but when he tries to let go of the showerhead he almost slips and Howard has to dig his nails into his back to keep him up, so Mark decides it's not worth it.

“Ah, How,” he gasps as Howard's tongue starts to slide in and out of him, fucking him with it, brushing against his sensitive spots and then pulling away teasingly. Mark's cock throbs against his belly, and he wants to touch himself, but he can't. He wants Howard to touch him too, but Howard's hands are a bit busy at the moment. The only way Mark has of getting any friction on his prick is to grind it into Howard's hair, which seems silly, and he expects How to protest, but instead he just chuckles and keeps tonguing Mark's arse even harder.

Mark wonders why Howard is doing this. As far as he knows, Howard's never been with a bloke before – which does not guarantee he hasn't, but still. If so, then why do this now, with Mark? What's so special about him?

Then again, Mark also wonders why he's doing this. Howard is, or was, a friend, and clearly a good looking man – but is that all? Is Mark really going to do what he was planning when he hopped into this shower, which was figure out some nice, polite excuse to leave, and then never think of last night (and now, this morning) again? Is that really the sort of person he is?

He looks down and sees Howard, sort of; he can't see Howard's face, of course not, just the tangle of dark hair and well-muscled body underneath. Mark moans. It is nice, having Howard slaving over his arse like that, practically worshipping him. Is that all Mark wants, to feel desired? He supposes he always assumes it is, all the times he drunkenly falls into bed with some girl on tour. A desperate, pitiful attempt to tell himself he's still as fuckable as he was when he was nineteen, pretty Mark from Take That, and the whole world seemed to know his name.

Well, at least Howard's older than him, bigger, and just as famous as he is (which is to say, not very) – Mark can't possibly be accused of taking advantage.

He groans as Howard's finger push harder into his flesh, and Mark can't think to remind him not to leave bruises. A wave of pleasure crashes over him, and for a moment, he doesn't remember his own name. A great white flashes before his eyes, blinding as a spotlight.

* * *

They're both still wet when they make it out of the bathroom, but Howard doesn't hesitate when he pushes Mark down onto his sheets, although he knows he'll regret it later when he has to change them. Still, they're a mess all over in any case. Mark gasps at him, and Howard's quick to press his body on top of Mark's, to pin him down, and Mark lets him, whining and spreading his legs to make room, locking his ankles around Howard's thighs to keep him there. Howard groans and reaches between their two bodies, finding Mark's cock just starting to spring back to life from his first orgasm in the shower, though he still yelps and bites Howard's lip at the shock of being touched. Howard smiles to himself, and grinds against Mark's hip, excited by the thought of Mark leaving his mouth bleeding.

“Ohh,” Mark moans in his ear as Howard works his cock back to full hardness, wanting Mark to be as desperate as he is – he didn't get to come in the shower earlier; at least, he doesn't think so (the whole process of how they got to the shower to the bed is a bit of a blur, if he's honest). He kisses Mark again, remembering only a second later that he's still got the taste of Mark's arse on his tongue and he probably should have washed his mouth out first, but Mark doesn't complain, his lips parting easily beneath Howard's own. Howard pushes his tongue in and explores, and he claims: sweet as strawberries, their Markie, and maybe it's not everything Howard wants but it's what's here now, and he's going to appreciate it.

It's not as if Howard knows what he's doing, not really, it's all just instinct; rubbing himself all over Mark like a dog leaving its scent. As such, he easily obeys when Mark cries out: “ah, How, stop!”

Howard stops. He pulls back. He stares at Mark, and Mark stares at him, and Howard's heart thumps in his chest. Has Mark just realised how stupid this all is? Is he going to leave now, like he should have done hours ago?

There's something happening in Mark's eyes, something dark and worrisome, an inner turmoil Howard doesn't think he got begin to understand. Mark bites his lip. “Do you want to fuck me, How?”

“Uh.” Howard's caught off-guard by the question. His eyes glance over Mark's body; small, slim, and gorgeous as ever. _Jesus, of course I do,_ he thinks, but is that the answer Mark's looking for? “Do you want me to?”

A pause, and then Mark breaks into that trademark grin of his. “ _Yes_ ,” he hisses, and he wraps his arms around Howard's broad shoulders, pulling him down to kiss him again. Howard groans, letting himself be pulled into the embrace. Mark rolls his hips at him, filthy, lewd, and it makes Howard think of the routine they used to do for 'Give Good Feeling', and what a little slut Mark used to look, grinding himself against the floor for that song. Not that he probably looked much different.

If Gaz was here, he could come break it up, all according to script. Then again, if Gaz was here, this whole situation would be even more tangled, strange and sad than it is already.

Howard doesn't really want to stop the kissing and cuddling, but he realises he has to if he's going to do as Mark asked. “Hang on a sec, mate,” he mumbles against Mark's lips, and Mark pulls away from him with a pop and a 'what?' look on his face. “Lube, condoms, all that,” Howard reminds him. Mark gets an expression of 'oh, right' and nods along, letting go of Howard so he can lean over and fetch the requirements from his bedside drawer. Howard shivers as the cold air hits his still wet body.

He pulls himself back up and pours the lube, cold and thick, into his fingers. Mark smiles and leans back, legs spread expectantly. But then Howard hesitates. In theory, he knows how to do this. He's done it before – not with a bloke, but still, he's sure it's much the same. It shouldn't be hard. But still, when he looks down at his hands, wet and ready to spread Mark open, the whole process seems utterly, bafflingly alien to him. It's like when Gaz got it into his head that he was going to teach Howard how to play piano, a dream that died a fast, brutal death.

“How? Are you alright?” Mark asks him, clearly noticing the look on Howard's face. Howard looks up in surprise.

“Yeah,” and just then he notices how hard he's trembling. _Christ Dougie, get it together._

Mark gives him a small frown, one that seems ill-fitting for his features, and then gently takes him by the wrist. “It's alright,” he coos, like soothing a skittish colt, “I'll show you.” Mark guides Howard's fingers down between his legs, his arse still a little slick with Howard's saliva, and softly runs them along his rim. Howard shivers a bit, but finally his shaking stops, and he gets the hang of it soon enough, Mark's skin warm against his own. When he dares to press a fingertip in, Mark gasps, letting go of Howard's wrist to grab the sheets instead. Howard doesn't mind. He can manage this.

“Alright?” he asks, wanting to get this right. Mark has his eyes half-closed, chewing his bottom lip cutely as he wriggles and adjusts. Cute all over, their Markie. He nods.

“'S nice.”

_If you say so,_ thinks Howard, and takes that as permission to push his finger further in. Mark moans and arches his back, legs spreading wider obligingly. Howard crooks his finger experimentally, until he gets a sharp, loud gasp that seems to bounce off the walls around them, filling up the room. “Ah, ah, _there_.”

“There?” Howard asks, rubbing the same spot a few times over. Mark whimpers and digs his nails into the bedcovers, tossing and turning against the sheets. He nods again, frantic, desperate this time, like he loves it, needs it, and with his spare hand Howard rubs between his own legs messily.

He works Mark open until it looks like he's on the brink of collapse, and then Howard decides it's probably safe to slip another finger in. Mark cries out, his hand flying up and grasping Howard's shoulder. For a second Howard pauses, afraid he's pushed too far, but then Mark moans at him again and squeezes. “Mmm, yes.”

Howard nods and keeps pushing two fingers in until he finds that spot again, that makes Mark whine and writhe beneath him, and he leans down to press soft kisses against Mark's neck, so soft Mark maybe doesn't notice them. He strokes his own cock while Mark's not really paying attention, less gently than he fingers Mark's arse, but when he runs a rough thumb over his tip he shudders, and he realises he'll come too soon if he keeps that up, so he lets go, instead grasping Mark's hip with sticky fingers. _He's so small._

“Oh!” Howard's hand pinning him down only makes Mark buck his hips more enthusiastically. “Ah, ah, please,” he begs as Howard pushes a third finger inside him, brazen as anything. “Fuck me, do it, I want it, oh, R–”

Howard smashes their mouths together and cuts Mark off mid-sentence, pulling his fingers out with a pop. He can't wait anymore, he needs to get inside, _Mark_ needs him inside, and he tears the condom packet open in a rush, rolling the latex on in pure instinct, too much like all the hundreds of quick fucks they used to have back in the nineties that all blended together after awhile. “Marko,” he whispers against Mark's lips, and Mark just moans again as Howard lines himself up, pushes the head of his cock into that small, tight, well-slicked hole and _jesus fucking christ._

Mark gasps, his eyes closed, mouth open, lips pink and swollen. “Ah, Dougie,” he whines, rollings his hips up further, and Howard groans, shudders, and then feeds himself in further, relishing how hot that hole feels clutching around him, like it's never going to let go. Mark grabs his shoulders once more, nails digging in deep enough to leave marks, and Howard thrusts in deep, burying himself whole. “Alright?”

A nod, and Mark panting against his cheek, his legs wrapping around Howard's waist. “Want it,” he whispers again, and when Howard thrusts a second time he yelps, bites at Howard's earlobe. Howard trembles from head to toe and then loses control.

“Oh, oh, oh!” Mark shouts as Howard starts to fuck him proper, throwing his head back on the pillow and scratching at Howard's back, looking lost in bliss. “Yes, yes, like that, more, oh...” Howard groans and, it's maybe not what Mark was asking for, but he reaches down and wraps his hand around Mark's cock, stroking him hard, fast and needy, because he wants Mark to enjoy it, a lot, every bit as much as he seems to be now.

Mark whines and bites his neck, and with his other hand, Howard grabs Mark's hair and holds on tight. It feels long and soft, and the chestnut brown is dark against Howard's skin. He closes his eyes.

It doesn't last very long; they've been at it too long for that. Mark's body buckles in half and he whimpers; Howard soon feels him spilling all over them both, making a mess between their stomachs. It makes him moan. Mark's nails drag across his neck and cut him deep enough to spill blood, and he's overwhelmed, he mewls in Mark's mouth and then comes inside him, the condom capturing his seed, and Howard puts his hand over Mark's flat belly and clings for dear life.

* * *

Howard falls asleep right after sex. Mark remembers that now, from the few times they shared rooms after the girls started coming but before they could afford a hotel suite each. _I suppose he is getting on a bit_ , thinks Mark as he examines the lines of Howard's face, seeming older in his rest. Mark wonders whether he's being mean. Howard's only what, thirty-five? He's not about to crumble to dust.

He is so warm, and he's not let go, his arms still wrapped tight around Mark in his slumber. It was Mark who had to roll them both of their sides so he wouldn't get crushed. It was Mark who had to take the condom off, even. But still, he can't bring himself to mind. He doesn't want Howard to let go. He wants to stay here with him, feeling safe and held and young and free.

Mark sighs, guilt clawing in his stomach. This wasn't meant to happen; he meant to just leave. Go back to the real world, because staying in this bubble would only make things worse. That's what they did in the nineties – they stayed in a bubble for too long. Then Rob left, and when the bubble popped, it popped hard.

Idly, Mark runs his fingers over the lines of Howard's muscles – alright, maybe not as defined as they used to be, but still more than impressive. _He's still beautiful._ Mark leans his head against Howard's chest. Idly, he tweaks the nipple piercing, smiling at the cool metal against his skin.

Howard stirs. “Markie, I'm sleepin',” he mumbles, sounding absolutely exhausted.

Mark looks up, and then blushes. “Oh, sorry,” he says. “I didn't mean – um.” He realises it's silly to start getting shy about sex when his arse is still sore from how hard the man he's lying in bed with just pounded him, but oh well. “You get your rest Dougie. I'll wait.”

Howard doesn't answer, and as Mark watches his chest rise and fall he suspects Howard might have fallen back asleep already. The silence is too much for him. He rolls on his other side and sits up, finds the TV remote, hoping Howard won't mind. Lightning-fast, he turns the sound down to near-inaudible before the television even starts making noise.

_Come and hold my hand, I want to contact the living..._

“Oh bloody hell,” Mark says aloud.

He turns and looks at Howard, hoping it's quiet enough that he won't notice. For a second or two, Mark thinks he's gotten away with it. But soon enough Howard does start stirring, his eyes flickering open to the sight of Robbie Williams, tragically resplendent in glamorous black and white. He laughs. “Fuckin' well timed, that,” he says. Then he gives Mark a look. “You reckon the fates have it in for us?”

Mark winces. “I'm sorry, I'll just–” he reaches for the remote again, but then Howard reaches across and gently grabs ahold of his arm.

“Don't, it's fine,” he says. “They love Robbie in this country, even more than back home.” A sigh. “You get used to it.”

Mark pauses, and then looks back at the TV. He's relieved it's just a music video, and not an interview, so he doesn't have to spend his night pouring over every word, trying to understand. Still, it's hard watching Rob on screen, achingly familiar and yet so far away. It always is.

He probably shouldn't stay anything, but he can't help but blurt out: “D'you think Gaz ever got used to it?”

Silence. Mark can say the wary look in Howard's eye, and avoids his gaze guiltily. “Dunno,” he says. “We don't talk about Rob.”

Of course not. If Mark still talked to Gaz, he wouldn't mention Rob either. And the few times he's talked to Rob, he's never mentioned Gaz. It just hurts to think about, all that. It's not as if he doesn't understand Rob having some issues with Gary – he was in that band too, after all. But still...

“What is Gaz doing with himself these days anyway?” Mark asks, because he knows Gary must be doing something; he can't believe that Gary Barlow would ever do nothing with his life.

“Songwriting,” Howard tells him quickly. “And producing. Set up his own company with a mate. He's really successful. Worked with Atomic Kitten, Blue, y'know. Everyone who copied us, basically.”

Mark laughs at that. Then he looks down at Howard, now lying on his back, and bites his lip nervously. “They have a name, that company?”

Howard looks up at him, his eye wary again. “...True North Productions.”

_True North._ Mark commits it to memory.

His eyes flicker over the screen again, seeing Rob staring across the open plains at a beautiful blonde. Then the shot changes, and Mark sees Rob walking out of – well, somewhere, eating chips casually, a bright sign flashing 'bingo' behind him. _Bingo_. Somehow, that doesn't quite seem to fit in.

It stirs memories.

Mark looks down at Howard again, sighs, and lies back down to rest his head on his chest. If anyone was watching them right now, they'd think them any couple, enjoying a post-coital bit of telly together. Their love lives have long since ceased being of interest to anyone but themselves. “How,” Mark says quietly, “do you ever reckon – Gary and Rob, the reason things got so out of hand...” he bites his lip, and feels a deeply misplaced thrill for daring to ask this question. “Do you ever reckon they just fancied each other?”

He looks up at Howard, and Howard looks back down at him. Mark finds himself blushing, afraid he said something stupid. According to all the fucking world, after all, Gary Barlow and Robbie Williams hate each other. Always did, and always will.

Then Howard starts to laugh.

“Mate, where the hell have you been?” he asks. “Of course they fancied each other!”

_Oh_. Mark averts his eyes while Howard tries to get his laughter back until control. “Sorry, Markie. Just – I thought we all knew that.” And Mark blushes deeper. _Well I didn't,_ he thinks. Howard sighs. “Me and Jay had a bet actually. If they'd ever get their shit together and actually shag.” A pause. “I still owe him a tenner for that. If I had any idea where he was I'd pay him back.”

Mark winces. Jay. He misses Jay, but he doesn't think about him very much. Not like he does about Rob. Howard still has Gary, and he still hangs on any word Robb'll give him, but Jay really does seem to have broke away from it all.

He probably has the right idea.

Howard sighs deeply, and Mark feels those big, strong arms wrap around him again, hold him close. Howard grazes his fingers across Mark's sides softly. “You're so bloody skinny.”

Mark smiles, not sure whether to take it as a compliment. “Well, we can't all be the body of the band, Dougie.”

A pause. “I hate that nickname,” Howard says. “Makes me sound like a corpse they fished out of the river.”

Mark looks up, surprised. Howard is now avoiding his eye, but Mark feels his body go stiff, as if he's afraid he just said something he shouldn't have. “Oh,” says Mark. “I'm sorry. I didn't know.” He feels he should have done, though. He never was wild about being 'the cute one' either.

He glances back toward the telly, to Rob all over that blonde in the back of a car. _I just wanna feel real love fill the home that I live in._ He curls up further against Howard's warm chest, reaches down and tangles their fingers together. “Fates really do have it in for us, huh?”

Howard smiles a little, his hand closing around Mark's own. “Yeah.”

But maybe not. Maybe it's not the fates. Maybe it's the muses.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The thing is, now they've started talking about Gaz and Rob, it's not like they can stop. Not all the time mind. Most of the time, there's not much talking involved at all. They sleep. They eat. They screw. Any thought of cutting this short, of getting out now before they're in too deep, has long since been obliterated. Howard has Mark trapped with him until real life intrudes on Monday morning, and it would be a shame not to make the most of it while he's here. Howard will deal with the fact it's gonna kill him when Mark goes later.

Mark doesn't expect him to do much cooking, which is good, because he's no good at it really. He's content to live on delivery pizza like a teenager again. He answers Howard's door half-naked, and maybe there's a flicker of recognition on the delivery boy's face, but he's not the demographic to remember or care who was in Take That anyway.

Curled up with Mark on the sofa eating their pizza, it's hard not to think of Gaz, his ever-present guilt over everything he put his mouth that Howard used to brush aside, and his jealous glares at Howard's body that always managed to make him blush. Mark licks the grease off his own fingers and recalls one time he and Rob woke Gaz up at six AM by ordering room service. Howard says nothing, just turns his head and gently kisses Mark's ear, which somehow segues into Mark giving him a blowjob right there on the couch. Such is the way of things in this flat.

The sex gets more intense every time. Howard catches himself with two hands clutching Mark's hair, all but shoving him down, almost choking him. He feels a little sick. Christ, that's not like him.

But Mark's not complaining, just keeps bobbing away, and Howard can tell he's done this before. He feels strangely helpless, like what's happening is happening, and he's merely a spectator. It's not a nice feeling.

Mark insists on doing the dishes, or what few dishes they've got, and so after the sex and he's gone to quickly rinse his mouth out, he sneaks off to the kitchen to run Howard's cutlery under the tap. He's a very polite houseguest, Mark. The flat looks cleaner just from him being here. Howard follows, and perhaps lured in by domesticity of it all, creeps up behind him. He gives Mark's arse a loud smack.

“That the best thing you can think of to do, Markie?”

It doesn't come out right. Too rough, too demanding. Or maybe he just spanks Mark too hard. Either way, after the obligatory gasp Mark spins around, and he doesn't look pleased. Howard takes a step back. “Howard,” says Mark, frowning again. “Are you angry at me?”

“Uh...” Howard says, not sure how to answer that question. “Why would I be angry at you?”

Mark shrugs, averting his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest defensively. If Howard didn't know better, he'd say Mark looked guilty. “I just thought you might be,” he says. “You know, if you thought I'd picked Robbie's side.”

Oh. Howard feels a lump form at the back of his throat. “Picking sides now, are we?” Mark looks up at him, a little disbelieving, and Howard runs his hands through his hair in frustration. It's almost like he's choking. He really doesn't know how to answer this. “Christ, Mark, what do you want me to say?” Talking never was his strong suit. “I never got the impression anyone cared that much for our opinions on the whole Gary/Robbie thing.”

“I know,” Mark says sadly, his arms drifting back down his sides. “Robbie... he's so far away now. I want to be able to reach him again, but I _can't_.” He sounds like he could burst into tears at any moment, and fuck, how could Howard be angry at him now? “I would have picked his side. I didn't when it mattered, but I would have done. If he'd ever asked. If he asked me for anything, I'd do it.” He pauses, then gives Howard those big blue eyes, as beautiful and innocent as ever. He don't look a day over seventeen. “Do you hate me for that?”

Howard sighs deeply. “Mate, I can't even hate Rob,” he says. “I should do. I hated everyone else talking about Gaz like he did.” It was bloody inconvenient that, switching on the telly and wanting to put his foot through it every time he stumbled on someone making some cruel, snide jab at his best friend, without any bloody clue what they were going on about. Maybe that's another reason he wound up in Germany so much.

He hates all the members of the tear-down-Gary-Barlow brigade, except its ringleader. What sort of sense does that make?

“You worry too much, Markie,” he says, stroking his hair softly. “You didn't hurt Gaz. I know you. You wouldn't hurt anyone.”

Mark winces. “Not sure that's true,” he mumbles, and Howard frowns, but he gets the impression that's a subject he should not pry into. “It's just, I know what Gary went through–”

“No you don't.”

Howard surprises himself when he says it. He surprises Mark too, who cocks his head to the side curiously, and Howard's vehemence there undercuts the whole argument he was making about not being angry at Mark. “I'm sorry, it's just... when did you last see Gaz, Markie? His wedding?” Mark nods, and Howard swallows. “You just missed the worst of it.”

It all happened so fast. So fast, and so very slow. Howard remembers watching Gary sink, further, further, further, drawing into himself, and wanting to do something, anything, but knowing he couldn't. He wanted to reach Gaz, but he couldn't. Nothing could, and not much wanted to.

Then the wedding, and then the record deal. Then the worst of it. Then came the year he didn't even see Gaz, Gaz wouldn't even talk to him, and it was only a quiet call to Dawn later that told him he hadn't done anything wrong – she thought Gary was just too ashamed to face him. Even after Gary's son was born, after he and Dawn came back from LA and he started venturing out into the light again, when Howard next saw him, he looked about a thousand years older. He looked _scared_. He looked like any brush with the world might leave him shattered in a thousand pieces again, and Howard hated it. It was wrong.

He was always meant to be the shy one.

“...I guess so,” Mark says quietly, and Howard winces at the look on his face. He didn't mean to make Mark feel guilty. “Do you remember the Concert of Hope, How?”

Howard blinks. “Uh, yeah,” he says. He remembers Gary pitching him the idea, back when he meant it to be a one-off Take That reunion. Howard doesn't know why that fell through. He didn't end up watching it. “What about it?”

Mark bites his lip nervously. “We were all meant to be there, you know. That was Gaz's first idea. I didn't understand why, you know; his solo career seemed to be doing so well then, I thought, why would he want us back?” Howard says nothing. He remembers things were already going wrong for Gaz by then, but at that point, you might not have noticed if you weren't paying attention. “And Rob was gonna be there, and I thought, I didn't want to get caught in the middle. Gary vs. Robbie, and the three of us all casualties.” He pauses, averts his eyes again. “I didn't want to get my heart broke again.”

It takes Howard a moment to process it all. “So... you turned Gary down?” He remembers when Gary first floated the idea, and though Howard tried not to seem so desperate, he was. He was desperate. That first year after the band split, he was a wreck, and the thought of having it back for a night, an hour, a minute, it meant the world to him. And then it didn't happen. Crushed he was. Crushed.

He should have known it would happen like that – he wound up feeling like he did when they all decided it was time to call it a day, barely noticing him and his tears. This band he'd given the last six years of his life to, and never asked it for anything but just to be there, was yanked away from him just like that. It wasn't until Grace came along, gave him something else to devote himself to, that he really started to recover. Just in time to watch Gaz fall apart.

He wasn't angry at Mark before.

Mark flinches, averting his eyes once more. “I thought it was for the best, you know?” he says. “Give them the chance to work things out, without us getting in the way. And when I watched it, I thought I was right; I saw Rob give Gaz a kiss and a cuddle and I thought...”

“You were wrong though.”

“Yes, thank you Howard,” Mark snaps at him, and Howard flinches. He's being unfair, he knows it. It's not Mark's fault he's so bloody needy. Mark sighs. “D'you reckon, if we were there, we could have changed anything?” Mark asks him. “Made them see sense?”

“...Dunno,” Howard admits. How could he possibly know that? “But we were there the first time, and I don't think we helped.”

“Maybe we should have done,” Mark murmurs, and it sounds a lot more pointed to Howard's ears than Mark probably means it. _You knew how they felt about it each other,_ it seems to say. _And you didn't do anything. This is all your fault._

He knew, but he didn't understand. He still doesn't understand really. He knows Gary and Robbie wanted each other, and he knows Gary and Robbie fucked each other over, but he still doesn't get how they got from point A to point B. He probably never will.

“I just don't get it,” he admits quietly. “All that shit Rob used to say in the papers, everything he used to call Gaz – I didn't understand.” Mark looks puzzled. “I didn't recognise the bloke he was talking about. Did you?”

Mark hesitates, like your parents do when they're trying to avoid telling you hard truths. “Gary... was always very fond of you, Dougie.”

Howard blinks, and then averts his eyes. Alright, maybe so. Maybe he just missed every shitty thing Gary ever did.

“It's bloody exhausting, loving Rob, you know?” Mark says, and Howard looks back up to him leaning against the counter, smiling sadly. “I don't know why I bother sometimes.”

“I know the feeling,” says Howard. It's not as if he wasn't fond of Rob – you don't tend to get into wanking contests with a bloke you don't like, after all. It's not as if there aren't good memories there. It's not as if he doesn't feel guilty, when he reads about booze and coke and god knows what else in the tabloids. He was the oldest, he was twenty three – or twenty one according to Nigel, but either way, a proper Grown Up. If any of them should have been looking out for the baby of the band, shouldn't it have been him?

Still. If they are picking sides, it can't be any shock whose side he'd pick. Even if he ends up being the only one on it.

Mark gently extracts himself from Howard's body, and goes about drying and putting away the forks. Howard watches him a moment, and frowns to himself, remembering just how easily Mark took him before, how easily Mark's been taking him all weekend, really. “Mark,” he says. “Did you and Rob ever...?” Mark looks up at him curiously, and Howard, blushing a little, makes a crude gesture. He's surprised by himself. It's not like him to get shy about sex. He's shy about everything else in the world, but not sex.

Mark sees his blush and answers with one of his own. “Oh, ah, no,” he says. “Rob always thought of me as a brother, I'm sure. He would never.” He pauses. “I mean, I see where you've got the idea, you can tell – well, I've been with men before.” Mark is examining the tines on one of Howard's forks very closely, for which Howard is grateful. “But that was always one night stands and the like, you. Bit like this.” Howard winces. Is that what this is, a one night stand? “I've never had a proper boyfriend.” Well, he's certainly not that. “Actually, I ought to be more careful. Now I've been on the telly, press might just get interested in which way I swing again.”

Howard chuckles. “Didn't think of that, did ya?” he asks, and Mark smiles at him. Another pause.

“What about you, How?” he asks softly. “Did you and Gary...?”

“What? No,” Howard says quickly. “I'm not into blokes.”

Mark gives him a skeptical look, and alright, Howard realises that was a stupid thing to say to a bloke you've spent most of the last two days shagging. But. “You're not a bloke,” he says, and Mark looks offended, so Howard has to elaborate. “Well you are, 'course you are, but you're not _some_ bloke. You're part of Take That. So you don't count. We were all a bit gay for each other in that band; came with the job.”

It's maybe not the most convincing argument he's ever made. Mark doesn't look like he believes him, but he just smiles and shakes his head, letting Howard live in denial.

Look, he has enough to worry about without a sexuality crisis on top of it. Mostly he's just grateful Mark doesn't point out Gary was in the band too.

It's not like Gary would have been interested in him anyway. They were too close. Howard remembers Gary when they all first met, just how good he was, always focusing on his music, his career, never life's baser pleasures. No drink, No smokes, no drugs, no casual sex. Didn't last, none of it. No resistance to temptation, their Gaz. If Rob had ever been brave enough to make a move, Gary would have fallen into his bed in a millisecond. Not Howard's though. If Gary was going to fool around with another bloke, he'd have wanted – danger, excitement.

_He got danger alright,_ Howard thinks.

That thought makes him sad again, and he winds his arms around Mark, pulls him close. Mark sighs, sinking into Howard's chest. “I'm so tired, How,” he whispers. “So sick of being their castoffs.” Howard nods, placing his head on Mark's shoulder. He understands. But then Mark spins around and faces him.

“You know what we should do?' Mark says, his face awash with excitement. “We should do it ourselves. We should go find Jay, and try being Take That again, the three of us, without all the baggage. Let Gary and Robbie make each other miserable somewhere else.”

Howard frowns, perplexed by such a crazy idea. Part of him wants to leap at any chance of being Take That again, in any form. He's too practical for that, though. “Do you really think we could do it?” After all, he can't help but suspect none of them have had proper solo careers for a reason.

At that, Mark simply shrugs, giving Howard such an adorable grin that Howard can imagine saying yes to anything. No wonder he used to get so much fanmail. “Never know until you try?”

Fair point. But. “Would you really want to?”

That breaks through Mark's excitement. The grin starts to falter. Howard remembers what he was like after Robbie left. Being in Take That, pretending Take That were still Take That without him, that was torture for Mark. It's why he was so desperate to leave. Why would Mark want to put himself through that again?

And Gary. Gary lost everything – his looks, his reputation, his self-worth, his genius. But Take That, no-one could take that away. Unless they did. And if someone did, it would kill him. Howard could never do that to him.

He doesn't think Mark could either.

Mark sighs deeply, collapsing against his chest again. “No,” he says, and Howard cradles the back of his head with a hand, stroking his hair with a hand. Mark's hand finds his other one, winding their fingers together. Outside, the sun has long since gone down, and most of the second day has left them now. Howard feels electricity buzzing under his skin. There's a connection there, raw, powerful. Some might say dangerous.

“So what are we going to do?”

 


	4. Chapter 4

Rob enters the room, silent for once, waiting for the other man to start. He leans against a chest of drawers, folds his arms over his chest, and lets his sullen presence overwhelm everything around him. He's good at that.

Gary does not even look up. He's still sitting on the couch, slouched over a stack of papers, writing lyrics even if everyone's long since stopped listening. _Cunt_. “What are you doing here?” he murmurs, not giving away a hint of emotion.

“Wanted to see you,” Rob says quickly, and then gets angry at himself, because he knows he's still going to be the one to let his feelings lay bare, to make himself vulnerable; Gary, despite everything, is still too proud for that. “You look like shit,” he spits bitterly.

Gary does not look up and react, simply pushes another sheet of paper aside. Rob notes he's not actually written a fucking word. “Does it matter? The press aren't all after me anymore. No-one cares what I look like.” A pause. “I suppose you reckon that would be a relief.”

Rob scowls, incensed that somehow, after all these years, Gary can still get under his skin. “What would you fucking know?” He launches himself up off the drawers, landing by Gary's side with a _thud,_ kneeling on the couch and pushing his head as high as he can, trying to get an advantage. He grabs Gary by the throat and pushes his head back, but he does not squeeze. Not yet. “Don't go all sour grapes on me. You wanted to be a superstar as bad as I did. It's just one of us had the talent to actually succeed.”

He can see Gary's face now, but it still doesn't give anything away. He just looks mildly annoyed as he swallows beneath Rob's palm. “I might have actually enjoyed what you got,” Gary points out. “You just made yourself miserable. Did you even want to be a pop star Rob? Or did you just want to spite me?” He laughs just before Rob tightens his grip. “Face it mate, you ruined your own life as much as mine.”

“Shut up,” says Rob, voice giving away how much he's afraid Gary's right. With his other hand he grasps Gary's hair and pulls, hard. Gary gasps. “I'm the most famous man in the world. Why should I give a shit about some washed-up has-been people don't even remember enough to laugh at anymore?”

“But you do though,” Gary whispers, and his voice is almost choked out of him but still, he smirks smugly. “You can't forget me. You're the only person left who gives a shit what Gary Barlow is up to. I might be a nobody, but I'm the most important person in the world to you.”

His hand trembles with jealous rage around Gary's neck. “Watch your tongue, _Gaz_. Do you have any idea what I could do to you if I wanted?”

Silence.

Then, Howard starts to laugh.

Mark gets annoyed at that, pulls back, tugging his hair once more – but gently, now they've broken character. “Stop that,” he says. Even while he's speaking, his grip loosens around Howard's neck. “We were in the middle of things there.”

“Sorry mate,” says Howard, his voice sounding a little raw. Mark winces. Now he's not in Rob's headspace, furious at the other man and not caring what damage he might unleash, the guilt for hurting Howard becomes overwhelming, and he quickly lets go. His guilt does not abate when he sees the angry red marks he left behind, nor how Howard moves a hand up to his neck to rub and soothe them. Christ. Mark's done some shitty things in his life, but he's never hurt someone he's slept with before. Not physically, anyway.

“Are you alright?” he asks softly, not able to pretend anymore.

“Yeah,” Howard says softly, but the sigh he gives afterward says otherwise. Mark frowns. “Sorry, I really thought – you know, we'd be them for a bit, we'd figure it all out, it'd make a bit more sense.” Mark nods along. That seemed such a good idea when Howard first suggested it. Gary and Robbie might be the only thing about Take That anyone would ever remember, but they were part of it too – so, why shouldn't they be Gary and Robbie, if only for a little bit? But now... “I just can't take it seriously, you know? I mean, no offense mate, but – I know you don't want to hurt me.”

Mark sighs in turn, sitting down and laying against Howard's shoulder. “I know,” he says. “And I know you're not really that cold.” He pauses. “We're both too bloody nice for this.”

Howard doesn't answer that directly, just gently combs his fingers through Mark's hair. “Makes you wonder how they keep up the intensity.”

“Must be what makes 'em famous,” Mark shrugs, letting himself slide down into Howard's lap.

“Gaz isn't famous anymore.”

“You sure?” Mark asks. He looks up, and Howard seems bemused. “World's biggest pop star talks about him all the time. He's gotta be a little bit famous.”

Howard's hand stills in Mark's hair. “You wouldn't want him to talk about you that way.”

No. No, of course he wouldn't. No-one wants to be talked about the way people talk about Gary Barlow.

But still, Mark can't shake the feeling that if it was him Robbie Williams still needed to bring up – and drag down – in every bloody interview, no matter how famous he got, at least he'd be sure that Rob still cared.

He doesn't answer, simply closing his eyes as he rests in Howard's lap, tired. So very fucking tired.

“What are we going to do?” he asks again.

* * *

It's Sunday morning, and Howard's up early; he didn't sleep too well last night. He watches the sun break over the horizon and his heart speeds up a little. He feels like he's in a race against time. Racing toward what though, he hasn't a bloody clue.

Mark is still asleep, warm and curled in his arms, and Howard pulls him closer. He buries his face in the crook of Mark's neck and drinks in the scent of him, all sweat and organic hairspray. His groin twitches at the body pressed against his own, and Howard can't help but laugh at himself a little. You'd think he was too old to be horny in the mornings, but apparently not.

Still half-asleep and not thinking properly, Howard lets his hand drift down Mark's naked chest, travelling until he finds the other man's cock, still wet from last night. He wraps his fingers around it, and it starts to stir. Good.

Mark stirs as well, opening one eye and looking a little puzzled. “How...?”

Howard feels nervous, afraid Mark will have forgotten – where he is, that he's been there three days, and that he and Howard have been shagging most of that time. Maybe Mark will have forgotten who he is entirely. “Morning, Marko,” he says with an awkward grin, too casual for the fact he's just decided to wake Mark up with a handjob. “Is this alright?”

“...Yeah,” Mark whispers, and as Howard rolls a thumb over his slit, he gasps, his hips bucking forward into Howard's grasp. That's a relief. Howard keeps going, his strokes quick and clumsy, and Mark groans in pleasure just as his eyes start drifting shut again. Howard frowns, leaning forward to nip Mark's ear, earning another gasp.

“Sleep well?” he asks, not sure what to say but knowing he has to say something. He fastens his pace, and Mark moans.

“Yeah, a-alright,” he says, voice shaky with pleasure. He tilts his head to the side and before long, he finds Howard's lips, their mouths meeting in a messy kiss. They've both got a little morning breath, not helped by what their mouths were up to last night, but Howard can put up with it. Mark breaks away, and his hand reaches out for Howard's prick. Howard groans as he feels a thumb press beneath his balls. It's nice, but it's not the point. “Think you wore me out last night.”

Howard laughs at that. “Not too much, I hope,” he says. Mark doesn't answer, but from how hard he feels in Howard's palm, he reckons they're alright. Mark's hand on him is slower, softer than Howard's own, but that's alright too. Whatever Markie wants to give him.

Mark whines as Howard starts to wank him off properly, a loud smacking noise filling the room, and he leans in, burying his face against Howard's shoulder, smothering his moans. With his spare hand, Howard grasps Mark's hair once more, and then he lets himself push his hips forward, his cock – still in Mark's hand – pressing hard against his hips. “Stay, Mark,” he says. “Markie, stay with me.”

The words just slip out. They're needy. They're desperate. They're everything Howard was afraid of.

He doesn't think Mark even hears them. He's too busy moaning and writhing as Howard tosses him off, eventually biting down hard on Howard's shoulder before he comes, staining Howard's body and the sheets beneath them.

Howard gasps, and thrusts himself eagerly against Mark's skin. It should feel disgusting, being covered in someone else's spunk, but it's alright. It's warm. For now, anyway.

Mark moans, and eventually, he lets his hand fall by the wayside. Howard doesn't mind. Mark's arms wrap around his waist and urge him on, so Howard keeps going, grinding against Mark's hip like a horny teenager, wringing out as many orgasms as possible in the time he has left.

He wonders, if things had gone like they were supposed to, if Gaz had gone on to be the superstar like everyone expected – would he and Howard still be in touch? Or would he have forgotten all about his bandmates in his quest for fame? Would Howard feel as far apart from him as poor Mark does from Robbie?

Those are strange thoughts to be having when you're about to come, but it doesn't slow him down; he simply clings to Mark as tight he can, kisses his hair, and then spends his load all over his skin.

He sighs as he starts to come down, the morning light seeping into the room, making him wince. He looks back down, smiling at Mark. He expects Mark to smile back. He expects them to kiss again, to laugh and make small talk, and pretend this isn't ending. At least a little longer.

Soon he realises though, Mark's just fallen asleep again. Howard frowns. He can't exactly blame the bloke. Howard _did_ wear him out a bit last night.

He sighs again, pulling Mark against his shoulder, letting him rest. He looks over Mark's body and down to the pile of clothes on the floor – the clothes Mark was wearing, but not Mark's clothes. He didn't bring a change of clothes with him, so he's been wearing Howard's. They're all too big for him.

Howard looks at the clothes, then the come all over their bodies, and back again. It's a mess. It's all just a fucking mess.

* * *

It's Sunday night, and Mark's exhausted. Howard's been all over him all day. They've not talked about it, but they both know that Mark has to leave tomorrow morning, that the real world has come to steal and/or rescue him from the strange limbo they're in together. They've never seemed more like lovers, making the most of what time they've got before they're separated, maybe for good, but Mark won't think of it like that.

He could stay, if he really wanted to. Cancel the gig and spend the rest of his days in bed with Howard, drunk on memories. But he won't. He's got a life out there – a real life, not a Take That life.

They shag all over the flat and then as the sun goes down, they collapse into bed for more; Mark knows he should be already gone, he has to pack and all before leaving (and that's if his hotel hasn't thought he's buggered off and kicked his stuff onto the streets, or just called the police about a missing person) – but he can't yet. _One more time,_ he thinks as he strips Howard's t-shirt off his head, almost surprised to find him clothed, _just once more._ That's how addicts talk, he knows.

Howard moans, on his back, his strong arms encircling Mark's shoulders. Howard pulls him close, so close Mark squirms a little, not wanting to just squashed. “Markie,” he gasps as Mark kisses along his neck, reaching between their bodies, one hand straining to wrap around both their pricks. Howard groans and bucks his hips up enthusiastically, fingers digging into Mark's skin. “Fuck, please, Mark.”

“Shh, I've got you,” Mark whispers thoughtlessly as he wanks them both off. They might want more than this later, or maybe not, but they can figure it out. Howard thrusts into his palm and Mark shudders, feeling the other man rub against him. Howard's arms hold him tighter.

Mark kisses his neck again, nipping the skin with his teeth. Howard lets out a choked out groan. “Table,” he says, throwing Mark for a loop. “On the table – the lube...”

He pauses, but assumes he might have gone a bit fast, and How's just getting a bit more friction than is pleasant. He pulls himself up – Howard barely lets him so go he can do so – and grabs the bottle. Only when he looks down at Howard again does he see the way the other man is spreading his legs, or the fear in his eyes. He frowns.

“What are you asking me for here, Dougie?”

Howard hesitates a moment, then gives him a nervous grin. “Well, it's only fair, innit?” He spreads his legs wider.

Mark, with his free hand, presses over Howard's belly, tracing the curves of his muscles. He's not sure what fair has to do with it.

“Do you want me to fuck you, How?”

Howard bites his lip, nods. Mark's cock pulses. He wants to do it. He thinks Howard wants him to do it. But he's not so sure he should.

“Have you ever done this before?” he asks, although he knows the answer.

Howard hesitates, shakes his head, then gives him a mocking pout that almost covers up his anxious look. “Be gentle with me?” he coos, and Mark has to laugh. He leans down to kiss him again and he vows, _of course._

Those lips part easily, sighing into his mouth, and Mark can pop open the lube one-handed, squeeze the cool substance onto his fingers. He feels Howard shiver underneath. “It'll be nice, promise,” he says, and he should have known that the worst bits of him were always going to win here.

But Howard trusts him, not baulking a second when Mark returns his hand to between his legs, tracing the length of his cock gently, making him groan, before reaching further back. He takes a deep breath, but he lets Mark explore him there, a wet finger pushing behind his ballsack and down the cleft of his arse, rubbing back and forth gently. Mark twitches again, and he absent-mindedly strokes himself with his free hand, but he knows better than to rush this. He presses down until he finds Howard's entrance, tight and dry. “Alright?”

Howard, near-frozen as Mark – as gently as possible – starts to pry him open, gives a short, brisk nod. It's not terribly convincing. Mark gives him his most reassuring smile. “I'm gonna look after you Howie, don't worry,” he says, and he kisses the other man again, feeling Howard relax a little, sigh between his lips again.

Mark just keeps rubbing there a little while, until he feels the muscle start to loosen. He's kissing along the side of Howard's neck when Howard suddenly gives a loud, shuddering whine, that makes Mark look up curiously. “Good?”

Another nod as How spreads his legs wider, and Mark smiles instinctively, making his way down Howard's chest. “I want you to feel good,” he murmurs, because he couldn't live with himself otherwise. Howard groans as Mark takes his nipple between his lips, pulling at the ring with his teeth. He grabs Mark's hair, and laughs.

“You talk to me like I'm some teenage groupie,” he says.

Mark shrugs. “I'm just trying to be nice,” he says, maybe a little annoyed. Sometimes, nice is all you have. He returns his mouth to Howard's nipple, and How doesn't complain anymore, his hips arching off the bed as Mark sucks the little nub viciously, just as his finger starts to push inside.

“Oh jesus,” Howard gasps, squirming against the slow-yet-sudden intrusion. Mark feels the ring of muscle pop open as his finger slides in deeper, and Howard shudders underneath him, tugging Mark's hair. He looks up.

“Howard?”

“Keep going,” Howard gasps at him, rocking his hips up again. “I-I can take it.”

Mark frowns. Well. If that's what he wants. Gently, he starts to push his finger in and out, back and forth, stretching Howard as best he can. While he does he keeps kissing the other man's chest, hair ticking his skin, and he makes his way down, tongue tracing those abs until he's poised just over Howard's navel – teasing, almost. He looks up.

Howard still looks barely any less nervous, but when he meets Mark's eye, he raises an eyebrow, smiling. “You tryin' to distract me, Markie?”

Mark shrugs. “It working?”

Before Howard can answer, Mark slips his second finger in. It gets him a muffled shout and a lot of swearing, and Mark grabs Howard's thigh, squeezing it reassuringly before darting his head down as well, kissing the tip of Howard's prick lewdly. That earns even more swearing, as well as Howard's hips arching up to his mouth eagerly – god, those hips – and Mark smiles as he wraps his mouth around the width.

He bobs his head quickly, gracelessly, making Howard shudder and writhe against the sheets. With his fingers though he's still slow, careful – Howard feels so fucking tight still, and Mark's cock twitches at the thought of being inside him. He rubs himself into the mattress, and takes Howard deeper into his mouth. _Be patient,_ he tells himself, for a moment forgetting that they're running out of time.

Howard's hands grasp his hair again, although he doesn't push Mark down, for which he's grateful – he just holds on for dear life. Mark sucks him hard and fast, saliva dripping down his chin – it's far from the neatest blowjob ever, but it will do under the circumstances. Despite himself, Mark lets his fingers speed up a little, plunging in deeper, testing how ready Howard is. This time, when Howard trembles, Mark thinks it's because he's trying very hard not to thrust up into Mark's mouth.

“Christ Mark,” Howard moans again, squirming underneath him, fingers running through Mark's hair frantically. “Keep – keep – _ohhh_...”

Mark can taste precome at the back of his throat, and he pushes his fingers in deeper again. He doesn't want to rush, but at the same time, he doesn't want this to be over before he even gets inside. That's what Howard asked for, after all. He fumbles for the lube again, and briefly pulls up, off Howard's cock so he can see where to pour. He smiles as he sees it twitch eagerly as Mark adds the lube to a third finger.

When he pushes that third finger against Howard's entrance, at first he thinks it won't fit, it can't. _This is a mistake. I'm going to hurt him._ He looks up once more, and sees Howard's eyes wedged firmly shut, trembling again. His legs spread wider. “Please Mark,” he begs.

While Howard can't see, Mark shakes his head. Is Howard really enjoying this? Is that really why he wants Mark to do it? Or is Mark worrying for nothing? If Mark's so worried about him, why doesn't he just stop?

But he doesn't stop. He pushes – he pushes as softly as he can, but he pushes until he can force his third finger inside, and he watches Howard's face. Howard throws his head back, features twisted in a strange mix of pain, pleasure and shock. He looks young when he does that. Not as young as the rest of them, but still, young.

“Shh, shh, it's okay,” Mark kisses him hurriedly on the hip, and Howard simply lets out a throaty groan, squirming as he tries to adjust to the new width. Mark turns his head and goes back to sucking his cock, refusing to let it soften any under the weight of the pain.

“Fuck,” Howard gasps, his voice near-broken, his hands in Mark's hair still gentle, urging him on, “please, Mark, please.” Despite himself, Mark's cock pulses again at those words. It's sheer raw ego, delighting in the sound of someone begging for him – Howard could be anyone. Mark feels a little sick.

He keeps going, swallowing Howard's cock until he's almost choking on it, mouth washed out with salt. He starts to thrust his fingers again, and Howard takes it, writhing against the sheets and even starting to thrust back, learning to enjoy it. _It'll be alright,_ Mark tells himself. _He does want it. You just have to be careful_.

Mark is almost dripping into the sheets and he does realise, at some point he has to, before it's too late. He pulls up again, and reaches for the condom on the bedside table. He pulls his fingers out, and does not look Howard in the eyes as he rolls it on.

He hears a long, slow intake of breath, and when he crawls back between Howard's legs – still so obligingly spread – he bites his lip nervously. “You don't have to,” he says, stroking Howard's thigh again. “I'll understand. I promise I won't be mad.”

Howard gives him a nervous smile. “I trust you, Markie,” he says. “I know ya. You're not going to hurt me.”

Inside, Mark winces. _Wrong_ , he thinks.

But he lines himself up anyway, circling Howard's wet hole with the head of his cock, rubbing back and forth – teasing, or stalling? “You want this, then?” he asks, just to be sure.

Gradually, Howard's eyes flutter shut again, his arm wrapping back around Mark's shoulders. “Get on with it, Owen.”

Mark obliges.

Howard whines pitifully as Mark starts to thrust in, still seeming far too tight, far too unready, but sure enough Mark gets his cock inside and gasps loudly as the heat closes around him, a wave of pleasure overtaking him. Howard groans as Mark starts to push himself in properly. Eyes closed, Mark thinks to reach down and take ahold of Howard's cock, finding him still hard as he's split open, which is a relief.

As he wanks How off, Mark can feel precome spilling into his palm, and his own prick throbs hard before he's even halfway inside, making him groan in Howard's ear. This won't take long. Is that a regret, or a relief?

“Fuck,” Howard gasps against him, nails scratching down Mark's back ( _how will I explain those?_ Mark wonders a second). It's not until he's buried himself balls-deep that Mark dares open his eyes again, dares look at Howard's face. He looked stunned more than anything. Softly, Mark brings one hand up to his jaw, cups his chin.

“Alright?”

Howard nods again, eyes big and blue and sweet, before he closes them again. “Jesus,” he gasps, clearly not very coherent at the moment (talking was never his forte) – and then he rocks his hips upward again, the signal silent, but blatant.

Mark slowly withdraws, shuddering at the cold hitting his sweaty skin. He thrusts as softly as he can as he starts to fuck Howard properly, and Howard mostly pants in his ear, shuddering as he slowly gets used to the intrusion. Mark kisses him again, lips busy and needy against Howard's own as he strokes his cock, and it's good, Howard feels good around him and he hopes Howard feels good taking him, because he wants it to be nice, he's always so very nice, and he just wants to know he can do this nicely as well.

Gradually, Howard's thrusts back toward him grow more certain, lewd even, and Mark takes that as permission, thrusting in deep and getting gasps and moans and other sounds of pleasure – he remembers, again, what a pretty voice How has. Mark kisses him. He doesn't know what to do but kiss him.

Mark takes a moment to pull back, to look at him, while he's still as deep in Howard as he can possibly be. He feels a strange heartache, watching his old friend, his one-time brother, his bandmate – naked and vulnerable on his back. Mark feels close to him. Closer than he's felt to anyone in years.

Even Rob.

Still moaning, Howard takes hold of his hair again, pulls him in close. “Stay,” he gasps. “Please stay.”

The words go through Mark like an electric volt. His cock pulses hard, threatening to spill then and there. But it doesn't show. “Shh,” he says, trying with everything he has in him not to process the words. He wants to stay. He can't stay. He kisses Howard again. “I love you.”

It's far from the first time that's slipped out during one of his one-night stands. But he means it. He means it more now than he usually does.

And he was so sure he wasn't taking advantage.

He tightens his fist around Howard's cock and it doesn't take much more; Howard comes on his belly with a quiet groan, while Mark bites down on his shoulder as he finishes. For a moment, there's only a sharp, raw wave of pleasure, the sort that makes you forget who and what and where you are.

And then, there's everything else.

Mark sighs, collapsing on top of Howard's body – if nothing else, he's not afraid of squashing him – and kissing along the line of his jaw, not pulling out, not yet. Howard gives him a sleepy smile, gently kisses his brow, and then quickly nods off.

As Howard retreats into the realm of slumber, Mark sighs, taking the condom off and throwing it into the nearest bin. He sighs, and thinks a moment. The smart thing to do would be to leave now, to go back to his hotel room and prepare to leave again in the morning. He might break Howard's heart, but at least it would be a clean break. That's what they all need, a clean break.

Mark lies back down and curls up by Howard's side. He doesn't have the heart for that. He never has. He hopes he never does.

* * *

When Howard first stirs, Mark is already moving. Leaving. Dread tightens in his throat, and he keeps his eyes closed. _This isn't happening,_ he tells himself. _You don't have to watch him leave. Just go back to sleep, you twat, and soon enough he'll have never been here at all._

So that's the plan; Howard stubbornly refuses to admit he's awake, while Mark darts across the room getting dressed, picking up what few things he has with him, almost ready. Through his closed lids Howard can feel the sun streaming into his eyes. Poor Mark's probably already late for his train.

And then Mark stops.

Howard doesn't understand it at first. For a moment, he indulges the possibility that Mark might be looking at him, might be weighing his options, might be changing his mind. But Mark stays still for too long, and Howard's pretty sure he's not just staring. His body's not that good. Slowly, he opens his eyes.

Mark isn't looking at him. Mark isn't even facing him. He's frozen, his back to Howard, staring at something in his hand.

Howard sits up, and hisses at the strange, sore feeling in his arse – right, because he let Mark fuck him there. Begged him to, even. Howard's not going to say he regrets that – but he is a little embarrassed by it. He wishes he didn't know why. He's not sure how he's going to reconcile that with the whole 'I don't like blokes' thing, but that can be thought about later. It's probably best not thought about at all though – especially not the words they said, and probably didn't mean.

Despite the pain, Howard pushes himself up onto his knees, and he's enough taller that he can peer over Mark's shoulder to see him staring at his phone, read the name spelled out there. “Who's Josie?” he asks, and Mark jumps. “Do you have a girlfriend after all, Markie?”

“Hm? Oh, no, she's not–” Mark sighs loudly, and turns round to face him again. “She's a PA.” He hesitates. “She's _Rob's_ PA.”

Howard blinks. “...Oh.” Mark wrings his hands together, looking almost a little guilty. “Good for you, I guess.”

“I mean, she's left a voicemail, I haven't listened to it yet so I don't know what he wants but–” Mark takes a deep breath, realising he's babbling. “I did say, when I was on that show: I'd probably get a record deal if I sang with Robbie.” He gives Howard a small smile. “Maybe he's taken pity on me?”

_Maybe he loves you,_ thinks Howard. “I hope so, mate,” he says, and settles back down on his knees. Some people would call Mark pathetic, but Howard knows, if the roles were reversed and it was his best friend who was the superstar, he'd do the exact same thing.

A moment passes and Mark starts looking around nervously. “So, anyway, I'd better–” and though Howard knew it was coming, his heart still skips a beat. Mark can't look him in the eye. “I'm sorry, it's just, I've got to get this train and my tickets are back at the hotel and–”

“It's fine. I understand,” says Howard. He should just leave it at that. Talking's not his strong suit. Still, when Mark sighs sadly at him and looks just about to go, Howard can't help but grab his wrist. “Am I ever going to see you again, Markie?”

Mark hesitates, but finally, he looks Howard in the eye. “I hope so,” he says, smiling as ever. Slowly, he leans down and presses a kiss to Howard's lips. It's soft, chaste – brotherly, even. “I think you will,” he says. “I think these things have a way of working out.”

_If you say so._

Howard nods, and he lets Mark go. Mark runs his fingers through his hair, and then leaves the room. Before long, Howard hears the front door shut.

And he sits there.

 


End file.
